Joyeux Sans Frontieres

I’ll end my week of acrostic poems with this plaintive plea for a pleasant world where you can wander wherever you like with no need of a Passport.

P ersons unlucky enough to be born in
A failed state will continue to be viewed with
S uspicion bordering on contempt until
S uch time as more successful
P owers are mature enough to stop
O perating proxy wars and start enforcing the
R ule of international morality.
T ime heals. Customs posts become viewing hides in nature reserves.

 

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Image: Attenborough Nature Centre

Unlucky Charms

Perhaps we would do better to take collective responsibility for unfolding events rather than blaming them on the mysterious machinations of Fortune.

F uture days are nothing but fleeting dreams
O f yesterday’s hazy
R ecollections glimpsed in the distorting mirror of
T oday – krazy kangaroo kaleidoscopes!
U nderstandable, then, if we prefer to imagine
N ow held captive by Tomorrow and conceive that
E verything rides on the blind throw of loaded dice.

 

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Image: John Goto

Gangsta Wrap

You can’t rewrite history. It comes with the Territory, as I hope this acrostic poem shows:

T erra Nullius – a land without inhabitants – or so Old
E ngland branded you, Australia, with scant
R egard to sixty thousand years of thankful stewardship
R egretfully surrendered by your first people
I n the teeth of an offer
T hey couldn’t refuse. No thanks, of course, for passing
O n your Eden – a beauty undimmed, virgo intacta, as
R adiant as the day they set foot upon your sands! So what, some say? I guess
Y ou had to be there …

Image result for terra nullius

 

Image: Mabo

a lottery winner texts his future

(Sings) I’m gonna live forever, I’m gonna learn how to fly … or maybe just content myself with another acrostic poem in response to the WordPress Daily Prompt Elixir:

 

e vry fule no u dont get sumthin for nuthin in this crule
l ife & if u want 2 liv 4 eva u got 2 pay thru the nose 4
i t so i went & spent the hole stinkin lot on 1 teenytiny bottol ov fairy dust from
x anadu where old kubla khan still alive & kickin on milk ov pairadice & hunnydew &
i t sure in hell beats freezin yr bits off in a gr8 big fridge or beatin yr brains out 2 be
r emembered by folk that only want 2 no u cos they think u loaded

 

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Image: Pinterest

Smudged

Rash promises being the order of the day, thought I’d join in by undertaking to write a brand-new acrostic poem every day for a week using the WordPress Daily Prompt. The first one is Meaningless, if you see what I mean …

M aking sense of our world is your natural
E ntitlement, the new-life guru promised on his poster,
A nd only he held the keys to the kingdom of true knowledge.
N o-brainer, we thought, and mortgaged the house just
I n case he really had stumbled across the golden portal to
N irvana – committed ourselves to a new-life sentence with time off for
G ood behaviour. No pain, we chanted, no gain. Let it cost an arm and a
L eg if paradise beckoned. For months we watched the guru smile, his happy
E xample fading as our bank balance
S lipped into the red. Turned out he was just a new life guru,
S ame as all the rest. The hyphen wasn’t even hype, just a random fly-speck.

 

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Image: Ask an Entomologist